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in  Ol0nrl«jat0tt 

Olarlgl?  01.  illr3«tgrF 


PttWlBlfi'Ji  bg  tljr  Autlfor 

43B  ilatif  anita  Atirnt» 

&ifrra  Mahrt.  <2al. 


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Copyright  1919 

By 

Carlyle  C.  Mclniyre 


^   (': 


Even  in  these  turbulent  times  there  are 
those  whose  clearer  vision  can  discern 
above  the  confusion  of  the  moral  struggle 
the  gleam  of  the  imperturbable  stars  and 
to  that  small  brotherhood  is  this  work 
most  fraternally  dedicated. 

— C.  C.  M. 


PROLOGUE 

With  a  desire  to  render  the  ensuing  allegory 
as  comprehensible  as  is  possible,  the  writer  has 
decided  to  prefix  these  words  of  explanation, 
hoping  thereby  to  reconcile  the  reader  with  certain 
inevitable  paradoxes  which  are  inseparable  from 
the  poem. 

Since  the  aim  of  "In  Conclusion'*  is  to  approxi- 
mate truth  as  nearly  as  is  possible  and  to  elimin- 
ate the  customary  illusions,  pretentions,  and 
conventions  of  life  the  writer  has,  in  the  work 
proper,  seen  fit  to  make  use  of  the  first  person 
singular  throughout.  It  was  Thoreau  who  said, 
"We  commonly  do  not  remember  that  it  is,  after 
all,  always  the  first  person  who  is  speaking. 

Perhaps  the  title  of  "In  Conclusion"  is  in 
itself  a  misnomer,  since  our  conclusions  depend 
entirely  upon  the  experiences  of  our  individual 
lives,  whether  those  experiences  be  actual  or 
the  interpreted  experiences  of  others,  and  since 
life  is  constantly  subject  to  growth  and  to  the 
deepening  and  enriching  influences  of  time. 

Be  the  title  appropriate  or  otherwise  it  is 
certain  that  conclusions,  as  well  as  life,  are  sub- 
ject to  constant  change  and  that  as  long  as  life 


'vi ;.;  ..^  ...... .     ,    Prologue 

and  experience  are  existent,  just  so  long  shall 
conclusions  be  lacking  in  finality. 

Since  "In  Conclusion''  is  an  expression  of  the 
"truth''  as  realized  through  the  experiences  of 
a  life  which  is  probably  but  half  completed,  it 
therefore  cannot  be  taken  as  necessarily  final, 
even  inasmuch  as  it  is  the  sincere  expression  of 
that  life. 

The  writer  has  endeavored  to  (express  the 
truth  as  he  has  been  given  to  see  the  truth,  and 
this  with  no  intention  of  casting  discrediting 
reflections  upon  the  equally  sincere  and  equally 
justified  views  of  those  who  have  been  given  to 
see  the  truth  in  a  radically  different  light. 

Each  of  us  lives  in  an  entirely  different 
world,  an  individual  world  which  our  individual 
experiences  have  builded  about  us,  and  in  these 
varying  worlds  are  as  many  varying  races  of 
men  as  there  are  different  individuals  in  any  one 
of  these  countless  races.  No  two  of  us  think  the 
same  thoughts  nor  see  the  same  things.  As 
Schopenhauer  has  said,  "Thoughts  put  on  paper 
are  nothing  more  than  footprints  in  the  sand ;  you 
see  the  way  the  man  has  gone  but  to  know  what  he 
saw  on  his  walk,  you  want  his  eyes." 

Since  this  is  so  we  are  in  no  sense  justified 
in  passing  judgment  upon  the  thoughts  of  others. 


Prologue  vii 

for  to  do  so  is  to  judge  of  that  which  we  have  never 
seen  or  known  and  which,  in  its  entirety,  must  for 
all  time  be  realized  alone  by  its  originator. 

It  is  true  that  our  individual  thoughts  are 
largely  composites  of  the  fragments  of  the 
thoughts  of  others  and  those  in  their  turn  are 
only  composites  of  the  imperfectly  understood 
thoughts  of  preceding  thinkers,  but  into  each 
individual  composite  there  is  mingled  something 
that  is  peculiar  to  the  individual,  who  is  the  sole 
possessor  of  that  particular  understanding,  and 
as  a  consequence,  there  are  no  two  individuals 
whose  conclusions  are  in  all  essentials  the  same. 

We  each,  therefore,  must  build  an  individual 
castle  of  thought,  though  it  is  true  that  in  so 
doing  we  may  utilize  the  wreckage  of  the  thought 
castles  of  others,  which  has  been  strewn  about  our 
feet  through  the  instrumentality  of  our  own 
Vandal-like  misconceptions. 

Language  at  its  best  is  but  a  poor  vehicle  for 
the  transmission  of  thought,  as  must  have  been 
realized  by  all  who  have  sought  to  convey  to  the 
minds  of  others  some  impression  pertaining  to  the 
deeper  phases  of  life  and  feeling. 

How  often  we  can  see,  or  at  least  feel,  that 
behind  a  man's  words  there  is  dwelling  the  ghost 


viii  Prologue 

of  some  deeper  conviction  which  is  longing  in 
vain  to  find  expression. 

There  are  few  illustrations  that  will  better 
emphasize  this  point  than  will  those  beautiful  lines 
of  Tennyson's, — 

"Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  grey  stones,  0  Sea! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy. 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play ! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay  \ 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 

But  0  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand. 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break. 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  0  sea ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me." 

Where  is  he  who  can  read  those  lines  and  not 
feel  the  presence  of  things  unsayable,  and  who 
will  not  hear  the  fluttering  of  wings  as  the  soul 


Prologue  ix 

of  that  master  singer  strives,  like  an  encaged 
eagle,  against  the  narrow  confines  of  human 
expression?  /j  j  ^ 

Fortunate  is  he  who  in-^her  innermost  being 
hears  the  melodious  vibrations  of  responsive 
chords  which,  like  the  silver  strings  of  the  harp 
of  Aeolus,  are  fanned  into  soulful  symphonies  by 
the  passing  breath  of  another's  aesthetic  concep- 
tions. 

True  it  is  that  such  natures  are  proportionately 
exposed  to  the  discords  of  pain  and,  as  the  harp 
of  Aeolus  will,  when  in  the  grasp  of  the  God  of 
the  Tempest,  chant  the  battle  march  of  the 
elements  and  in  wrangling  discontent  wail  its 
agonies  from  the  measureless  depths  of  the  void 
of  sound,  even  so  will  the  aesthetic  nature  at 
times  be  swept  by  chords  of  bitter  agony  which  in 
passing  would  gain  but  feeble  response  from  the 
less  tense  chords  of  natures  unaesthetic. 

As  Burns  has  expressed  the  idea, — 

"Dearly  bought  the  hidden  treasure 

Finer  feelings  can  bestow 
Chords  that  vibrate  sweetest  pleasure 

Thrill  the  deepest  notes  of  woe." 

But  in  spite  of  the  necessary  accompanying 


X  Prologue 

pain  those,  "Chords  that  vibrate  sweetest 
pleasure"  are  essential  to  the  larger  and  deeper 
life,  and  the  discords  serve  only  to  emphasize  the 
harmony  and  the  sweetness  of  the  higher 
pleasures. 

Thus  it  is  that  the  development  of  the  race  as 
well  as  that  of  the  individual  is  to  be  attained 
only  through  a  stimulation  of  that  faculty  which 
recognizes  and  appreciates  the  beautiful  in  its 
various  forms. 

It  is  through  this  channel  that  the  imagination 
or  the  great  awakening  power  may  be  revivified, 
and  through  which  the  morals  of  men  may  be 
unified  and  elevated. 

It  was  Victor  Hugo  who  said, — "The  beautiful 
is  as  useful  as  the  useful." 

But  after  all  it  seems  that  beauty,  or  at  least 
the  appreciation  of  beauty,  must  be  inherent  in  the 
soul  of  the  individual,  for  beauty,  be  it  in  what 
form  it  may,  can  only  appeal  to  the  perceiver 
in  as  far  as  he  is  susceptible  to  that  appeal. 

The  expression  of  another,  be  it  verbal  or 
otherwise,  is  worth  no  more  to  an  individual  than 
inasmuch  as  it  is  able  to  awaken  m  him  the 
ability  to  feel,  to  comprehend,  and  to  enjoy;  in 
short  it  is  of  service  only  in  as  far  as  it  is  able 
to  show  the  individual  who  and  what  he  himself  is. 


Prologue  xi 

It  is  the  effort  of  all  who  strive  to  express  the 
deeper  and  more  beautiful  convictions  of  life, 
to  submit  them  in  a  form  which  will  render  them 
most  acceptable,  comprehensible  and  effective  and 
when  this  has  been  done,  the  writer  can  only  con- 
tent himself  with  the  realization  that  he  has  done 
his  best,  and  leave  the  reader  to  glean  from  his 
efforts  such  ideas  as  he  has  succeeded  in  present- 
ing in  a  gleanable  form. 


As  he  who  in  his  search  for  gold  pierces  to 
the  roots  of  the  eternal  hills,  so  is  he  who  in 
quest  of  truth  delves  into  the  heart  of  things. 

Sinking  the  shaft  of  his  inquiry  through  the 
superficiality  of  established  illusion,  he  descends 
deeper  and  deeper  through  the  substratifications 
of  underlying  evidences,  laboring  under  constantly 
increasing  difficulties,  and  supported  only  by  the 
stimulus  of  the  quest. 

About  the  mouth  of  every  shaft  of  inquiry  is 
to  be  found  the  usual  quota  of  self-sufficient  and 
loquacious  blockheads  who,  with  the  promptness 
of  ignorance,  at  once  sieze  upon,  paw  over  and 
comment  upon  each  load  of  detached  thought 
as  it  is  sent  aloft  by  the  patient  delver  in  the 
depths  below. 


xii  Prologue 

Down  in  the  darkness  and  solitude  of  the  un- 
discovered, the  inquirer  toils  earnestly  on,  caring 
little  or  nothing  for  comments  or  commenters. 
Fiercer  and  fiercer  grows  the  heat,  harder  and 
more  hard  the  underlying  foundations  of  thought 
through  which  he  delves  with  the  determination 
of  the  undiscouragable.  Distant  and  more  distant 
the  verdant  sod  of  illusion,  and  fainter,  as  he 
works,  grows  the  voice  of  companionship.  Gone 
is  the  light  of  human  sympathy  and  appreciation 
and  still  the  solitary  soul  delves  valiantly  on, 
never  to  be  satisfied  with  any  treasure  other  than 
the  innermost  heart  of  the  unknown. 

Determinedly  his  pick  eats  its  fiery  way  into 
the  stubborn  depths,  and  into  the  eternal  stillness 
of  that  subterranean  realm  stabs  its  ringing  inter- 
jections. 

When  lo !  with  a  blinding  suddenness  the  very 
foundation  of  the  world  of  things  gives  way  below 
his  feet.  With  the  intuition  of  an  endangered 
animal  he  clings  desperately  to  the  supporting 
irregularities  of  the  confining  walls  and,  with 
reeling  brain,  peers  from  his  bottomless  shaft  into 
the  seething  and  moulten  depths  of  wild  insanity. 

Here  the  inherent  strength  of  the  man  de- 
termines his  fate.  Either  Nietzche-like  he  plunges 
headlong  into  the  bubbling  void  or  with  stalwart 


I 


Prologue  xiii 

and  almost  superhuman  stolidity  he  refuses  to 
yield  himself,  and  scrambling  into  the  suspended 
bucket  ascends  from  the  dangerous  depths  of 
the  undiscoverable  to  dwell  the  remainder  of  his 
days  in  possession  of  his  limited  faculties,  and 
to  content  himself  with  the  blossoms  of  mystery 
which,  star-like,  are  scattered  over  the  verdant 
sod  of  illusion. 

4e  9|(  ♦  ♦  ♦ 

It  is  not  the  hope  of  the  writer  that  all 
things  parodoxical  have  been  eliminated  from  the 
ensuing  allegory,  nor  is  such  his  desire. 

It  requires  no  very  persistent  perusal  of  any 
particular  line  of  thought  to  force  that  thought 
to  retreat  like  a  frightened  ape  into  the  jungle  of 
contradiction  and  paradox.  Here  the  mind  must 
halt  while  the  pursued  may,  in  guaranteed  security 
bury  itself  in  the  inaccessible  depths  of  the 
unknown,  unharmed  and  unreached  by  any  random 
arrows  of  mere  surmise  which  may  be  sent  in 
pursuit. 

Being  born  cripples  we  are  forced  oy  necessity 
to  accept  this  swaying  reed  of  reason  as  a  crutch. 
So  long  as  we  confine  our  rambles  to  the  grassy 
lowlands  of  life  we  may  hobble  about  quite  suc- 
cessfully, but  the  steeper  slopes  of  Olympus  are 
strewn  with  the  broken  and  discarded  crutches 


xiv  Prologue 

of  those  who  have  vainly  sought  the  dwelling 
place  of  the  gods. 

In  approaching  the  conclusion  of  his  essay, 
"Nominalist  and  Realist,"  Emerson  has  said,  "No 
sentence  will  hold  the  whole  truth,  and  the  only 
way  in  which  we  can  be  just  is  by  giving  ourselves 
the  lie.  Speech  is  better  than  silence,  silence  is 
better  than  speech.  All  things  are  in  contact; 
every  atom  has  a  sphere  of  repulsion.  Things  are 
and  are  not  at  the  same  time — and  the  like.  All 
the  universe  over,  there  is  but  one  thing,  this 
Two-Face,  creator-creature,  mind-matter,  right- 
wrong,  of  which  any  proposition  may  be  affirmed 
or  denied." 

The  source  of  reason  is  mystery  and  reason 
when  pushed  to  its  ultimate  will  invariably  go 
to  seed  in  a  pod  of  parodox.  Like  a  meteor,  reason 
appears  unannounced  from  a  limitless  void  of 
gloom,  trails  its  fiery  course  for  a  brief  spell 
through  the  higher  atmosphere  of  our  little  world 
and  as  precipitately  plunges  into  the  gloom  again. 

The  most  profound  thought-edifice  ever 
builded  is  no  more  than  a  tower  of  shadows  which 
swims  for  an  interval  through  the  desert  mirage 
of  life. 

Verily  meditation  teaches  us  that  all  is 
paradoxical,  even  unto  this  thing  which  we  have 


Prologue  xv 

termed  "thought,"  and  including  these  peram- 
bulating mysteries,  which  for  want  of  a  better 
name  we  have  called  "men." 

With  this  feeble  attribute  which  is  "reason" 
we  attempt  to  measure  all  about  us  and  subse- 
quently to  appraise  the  virtue  of  all  things,  never 
considering  for  an  instant  that  this  thing  "reason" 
which  is  our  very  instrument  of  measurement  is 
nothing  more  than  a  mere  supposition,  a  surmise, 
an  unfounded  hypothesis  which  we  have  accepted 
through  force  of  dire  necessity. 

What  a  paradox  is  the  unreasonableness  of 
reason,  the  thoughtlessness  of  thought! 

Since  reason  is  solely  a  matter  of  comparison, 
a  judging  of  things  new  by  comparison  with 
things  old,  a  measuring  of  things  unknown  by  a 
scale  formed  of  a  combination  of  things  which 
are  supposedly  established  as  facts,  it  must  follow 
that  reason  can  deal  only  with  such  considerations 
as  are  in  some  sense  comparable  to  precedent. 
The  finality,  integrity  and  certainty  of  all  conclu- 
sions thus  reached  are  seriously  compromised  by 
the  hypothetical  nature  of  the  factors  entering 
into  the  process  of  their  deduction. 

Since  all  precedent  is  in  its  last  sense  only 
supposition  it  must  follow  that  there  is  no  actu- 
ally established  fact;  for  a  supposition  which  is 


xvi  Prologue 


said  to  be  proven  through  the  instrumentality  of 
another  supposition  can  not,  in  the  final  sense  of 
the  word  be  spoken  of  as  proven. 

As  that  most  astute  thinker,  Herbert  Spencer, 
has  sa'id  in  concluding  his  wonderful  work  on 
"The  Unknowable," — "He  (the  man  of  science) 
more  than  any  other,  knows  that  in  its  ultimate 
essence  nothing  can  be  known." 

And  thus  it  is  through  all  things,  all  is  fluent, 
all  things  are,  as  far  as  we  are  concerned,  founded 
upon  mere  supositions  which  in  desperation  the 
mind  of  man  has  grasped,  and  upon  which  he  has 
builded  this  curious  leaning  tower  of  Pisa  which 
is  our  society. 

Adrift  in  the  void,  upon  a  mere  hypothesis, 
and  inhabiting  this  superstructure  of  society,  man 
wraps  the  veils  of  his  countless  religions  about  his 
eyes  and  swings  giddily  on  to  the  realm^s  of  He- 
knows-not-where.  He  knows  not  whence  he  came 
nor  whither  he  will  go,  but  with  an  indifference 
which  has  in  it  the  characteristics  of  both  the 
Deity  and  the  fool  he  bravely  deals  with  the 
incidents  of  the  present.  He  thinks,  if  think  he 
can,  that  through  all  of  the  bewildering  web  of 
things  he  sees  a  plainly  discemable  golden  thread 
of  purpose,  and  in  the  thought  is  hope,  and  in 
hope  alone  is  life. 


V-.A^-'^* 


Prologue  xvii  . 

The  only  thing  that  he  really  knows  is  that  he   i  ^ 

knows  nothing  and  that  all  knowledge  is  mere 
surmise,  and  irony  of  ironies,  that  this  realization  • 
is  in  itself  only  a  super-surmise. 

Ye  God  of  mysteries !  Why  and  wherefore  J 

"I  stand  amid  the  roar 
Of  the  surf  tormented  shore, 
And  I  hold  within  my  hand 
Grains  of  golden  sand — 
How  few !  yet  how  they  creep 
Through  my  fingers  to  the  deep, 
While  I  weep — while  I  weep ! 
O  God !  can  I  not  grasp 
Them  with  a  tighter  clasp? 
O  God !  can  I  not  save 
One  from  the  pitiless  wave  ? 
Is  all  that  we  see  or  seem 
But  a  dream  within  a  dream?" 

— E.  A.  Poe. 

If  herein  there  is  a  reluctance  shown  in 
i" accepting  the  trappings  and  draperies  of  any  of 
the  various  established  creeds  it  is  through  no 
lack  of  appreciation  of  the  value  of  the  vital 
principle  of  all  religion,  but  because,  as  Thomas 
Carlyle   has   said, — "Rituals,    Liturgies,    Creeds, 


xviii  Prologue 

Hierarchies,  all  this  is  not  religion,  all  this,  were 
i'.  dead  as  Odinism,  as  Fetishism,  does  not  kill 
religion  at  all." 

1^0/  has  it  been  possible  for  the  writer  to 
conceive  of  a  God,  an  Infinite  or  a  Cause  in  the 
generally  accepted  and  personified  sense  of  these 
terms.  The  existing  God  of  all  time,  force  and 
matter  can  not  in  his  conception  of  things  be 
shrunken  into  the  picture  god  of  the  creeds  nor 
will  the  wildest  flights  of  a  most  fanciful  imag- 
ination enable  him  to  mould  into  a  conceivable 
form  the  God  that  is. 

In  considering  the  origin  and  motive  of  things 
the  human  mind  can  not  intelligently  grasp  the 
idea  of  a  beginningless  universe  nor  can  it  intelli- 
gently grasp  the  alternative  idea  of  an  all  wise  and 
all  powerful  creating  Cause.  In  fact  the  human 
mind  being  finite  is  staggered  and  prostrated  at 
any  attempt  to  logically  deal  with  the  God  idea. 
A  man  either  accepts  the  God  idea,  call  it  what  he 
will,  or  else  he  refuses  to  accept  it  and  in  either 
case  his  position  is  indefensible,  and  any  argu- 
ment advanced  in  defense  of  his  stand  only  weak- 
ens his  position. 

With  a  full  realization  of  the  shadow-like 
foundations  which  buoy  up  his  consequent  philos- 
ophy  of  life  the  writer   accepts   what   to   him 


li 


Prologue  xix 

seems  the  firmer  of  the  two  possible  foundations, 
accepts  the  God  idea  in  a  general  way  and  builds 
thereon. 

It  is  an  old  and  true  adage,  **The  more  we  know 
the  less  we  know"  and  only  ignorance  deep  and 
dense  is  positive  in  its  opinions. 

Faith  is  another  name  for  desperation  as 
manifested  by  small  minds.  It  asserts  as  truths, 
beliefs  which  it  can  not  prove  to  be  facts.  Hope 
is  larger  in  that  it  deals  with  possibilities  rather 
than  with  assertions.  Faith  is  final,  bigoted, 
violently  partisan  and  oppressive,  while  hope  is 
trusting,  broadly  catholic  and  lenient,  open  to  all 
light  and  intellectual  improvement  and  above  all, 
free  from  all  dogmatic  formulas  and  restraints. 
Hope  builds  upon  dreams,  calls  them  dreams  and 
trusts  that  all  is  well,  faith  builds  upon  dreams, 
;alls  them  facts  and  dogmatically  asserts. 


Philosophy,  broadly  speaking,  must  of  course 
embrace  all  things  pertaining  to  human  life  and 
human  thought,  including  the  false  philosophies 
of  the  vanished  and  fast  vanishing  creeds.  In 
fact  even  hope  itself,  in  order  to  exist,  must  have 
some  dimly  discernable  silken  thread  anchoring  it 
to  the  ghost  of  an  unrecognized  and  submerged 
►hilosophy. 


XX  Prologue 

Like  the  waxen  pond-lily  the  flov/er  of  hope 
must  draw  even  its  most  beautiful  conception  of 
life  and  cause  from  the  underlying  quagmire  of 
mere  thought.  In  its  rise  toward  perfection  it 
ascends  through  the  malarial  waters  of  earthly 
experience  inch  by  inch,  until  at  last,  bursting 
into  perfected  form,  all  consideration  of  the  en- 
vironment of  its  origin  is  lost  in  an  appreciation 
of  the  perfected  flower. 

Nor  is  the  lily  of  hope  any  less  a  lily  because 
it  was  conceived  in  the  slime  coated  silt  of  reason, 
among  the  tangled  roots  of  mistaken  philosophies, 
and  forced  its  waxen  beauty  heavenward,  un- 
sullied, through  the  polluting  waters  of  human 
experience. 

These  things  being  considered  the  writer  has 
experienced  no  little  difficulty  in  attempting  to 
personify  Hope,  Philosophy,  and  the  Creeds,  and 
to  sever,  for  the  time  being,  that  all  too  evident 
connecting  thread,  in  order  to  contrast  these 
phenomena  of  the  human  mind,  one  with  the  other. 

The  personified  philosophy  of  "In  Conclusion" 
is,  however,  that  limited  philosophy  which  Schop- 
enhauer had  in  mind  when,  in  speaking  of  the 
intellect  he  said, — "Its  power  of  comprehension 
never  reaches  beyond  what  philosophers  call 
'finite  things,'  or  as  they  sometimes  say,  'phenom- 


Prologue  xxi 

ena/  in  short  just  the  fleeting  shadows  of  this 
world,  and  the  interest  of  the  individual,  the 
furtherance  of  his  aims  and  the  maintenance  of 
his  person.  And  since  our  intellect  is  thus  emin- 
ent our  philosophy  should  be  eminent  too,  and  not 
soar  to  supermundane  things,  but  be  content  with 
gaining  a  thorough  grasp  of  the  world  of  ex- 
perience." 

It  is  probable  that  the  philosophy  of  "In 
Conclusion"  would  be  more  readily  recognized  if 
arrayed  in  the  chain  armor  of  Science  than  when 
arrayed  in  the  sack-cloth  of  the  sage. 

Be  that  as  it  may  our  scientific  philosopher 
and  heir  to  the  House  of  Fact  herein  meets  Hope, 
the  child  of  Him  to  whom  all  Philosophies,  all 
heirs,  and  all  facts  are  but  incidents  and  in  the 
meeting  there  is  catastrophe. 

In  advancing  the  belief  that  "all  that  is,  is 
right"  the  writer  has  not  been  blind  to  the  fact 
that  suffering  is  a  dominant  factor  in  life.  The 
soul  sickening  misery  and  oppression  of  the  units 
of  humanity  have  at  times  born  in  upon  him  with 
paralyzing  intensity,  but  in  moments  of  clearer 
vision  the  workings  of  the  Omniscent  Will  as 
manifested  in  the  vast  scale  of  things  has  con- 
vinced him  that  pain  in  all  of  its  instructive  and 


xxii  Prologue 

disciplinary  workings,  is  but  one  element  enter- 
ing into  a  vast  and  final  good. 

In  his  exquisite  lament  Tennyson  has  said, — 

"And  I — ^my  harp  would  prelude  woe — 
I  can  not  all  command  the  strings. 
The  glory  of  the  sum  of  things 
Will  flash  along  the  chords  and  go.'' 

Nor  would  the  writer  imply  that  the  present 
conditions  being  "right"  are  final.  Change  is  the 
keynote  of  the  universe  and  finality  is  a  myth. 
From  the  primal  bog  the  creature  man  has 
dragged  his  slow  way  up  the  slippery  grade  of 
development,  shedding  one  by  one  his  brutish 
traits  and  ever  striving  to  fan  into  flame  that 
small  spark  of  soul  which  has  led  him  hopefully 
on.  Like  a  beacon  in  the  night  the  vision  of 
ultimate  justice  among  men  has  glowed  before 
him  and  even  now  is  glowing  with  increased  in- 
tensity. With  ever  increasing  will  and  with  ever 
increasing  intelligence  he  presses  onward  and  up- 
ward toward  the  still  distant  goal  of  civilization. 

One-third  lizard,  one-third  man  and  one-third 
angel  he  bends  to  the  grade;  the  lights  of  civil- 
ization are  in  sight;  his  thews  are  strengthened 
by  ages  of  stress  and  strain,  his  course  has  been 


Prologue  xxiii 

ever  upward  and  ever  upward  it  will  be,  in  spite 
of  the  element  of  swamp  reptile  which  has  per- 
sistently clung  to  him.  The  man  is  gradually- 
dominating  the  lizard  and  likewise  the  angel, 
whose  name  is  Idealism,  is  gradually  dominating 
the  man. 

All  that  was,  was  right,  in  the  ascending  scale 
of  progress;  all  that  is,  is  right,  for  the  present 
instant  only ;  what  is  to  be,  will  be  right  though  it 
differ  in  every  detail  from  the  right  of  today. 
Progress  is  invincible  and  the  world  does  move 
forward  perceptibly.  Thus  religions,  nations, 
ideals,  political  philosophies  and  faiths  without  end 
have  come  and  gone  to  make  way  for  better  ones 
to  come,  and  still  man,  the  central  figure,  plods 
steadily  on. 

In  all  of  the  realms  of  imagination  and 
reality  there  is  nothing  that  is  at  once  as  pathetic 
and  as  inspiring  as  is  this  great  semi-blind,  in- 
articulate, groping  brute-man,  sullenly  plodding 
up  through  the  ages,  slipping  backward  now  and 
then  only  to  rise  and  trudge  determinedly  onward, 
his  heavy  half-shut  eyes  glowing  with  the  fires  of 
an  awakening  soul  and  set  steadily  upon  the  light 
of  civilization  which  gleams  upon  the  distant 
leight. 

In  considering  justice  as  it  is  manifested  in  the 


xxiv  Prologue 

universal  scheme  it  is  all  too  evident  that  the 
Omniscient  Will  is  little  concerned  with  justice  as 
it  applies  to  the  individual. 

Right  is  ever  becoming  an  accomplished  fact 
and  in  the  process  are  involved  many  painful 
procedures  which  enter  as  factors  in  the  great 
final  accomplishment  toward  which  the  whole 
universe  drives.  These  procedures  being  essential 
to  the  great  master  purpose  of  the  universe  are 
necessarily  right  though  we  as  individuals  are  at 
times  shown  no  more  consideration  than  is  grain 
within  the  mill. 

This  progress  in  its  development  strikes  re- 
morselessly at  men  and  nations,  sweeps  races  into 
oblivion,  turns  worlds  and  systems  into  the  dis- 
card but  ever  marches  irresistably  on  to  its 
appointed  end. 

It  is  only  when  the  individual  willingly  loses 
himself  in  the  cosmic  machine  and  falls  into  his 
nitche  as  an  infinitesimal  part  of  a  perfected  whole 
that  he  can  hope  to  view  the  idea  of  justice  from 
a  proper  perspective. 

Be  he  baker,  poet,  agitator  or  farmer,  let  him 
do  his  small  part  in  the  vast  task  of  living,  asking 
no  privilege  that  he  is  not  willing  that  all  should 
have,  serving  and  being  served  and  ever  lending 


Prologue  xxv 

his  individual  strength  to  the  forward  urge  of 
things. 

When  a  man  has  fully  realized  that  honor  and 
common  decency  demand  that  strength  shall  not 
prey  upon  weakness,  be  that  weakness  physical, 
mental,  or  material,  then  and  only  then,  has  that 
man's  mentality  risen  above  the  mental  horizon 
of  the  jungle  beast. 

Let  a  man  say  to  himself,  "I  am  willing  to 
fit  into  the  master  design  of  things  in  whatever 
capacity  it  has  been  intended  that  we  as  a  race 
should  fit.  If  the  Master  Builder  has  decreed  that 
this  humanity  to  which  I  belong  is  to  serve  but  as 
a  roadway  over  which  are  to  march  the  sandled 
feet  of  better  things,  then  well  content  am  I  to 
serve  in  such  capacity."  When  a  man  has  reached 
this  realization,  that  in  the  cosmic  scheme,  each 
and  every  infinitesimal  part  is  equally  important, 
and  without  his  atom  of  life  and  service  the 
whole  cosmos  would  have  been  an  uncompleted 
thing,  then  is  he  willing  to  be  and  to  serve  in 
whatever  capacity  shall  fall  to  his  lot,  and  in  his 
heart  there  will  reign  a  buoyant  sense  which  is 
stoicism,  infused  with  the  illumination  of  hope. 

The  poem  as  a  whole  is  the  child  of  necessity, 


xxvi  Prologue 

as  "In  Conlusion"  has  for  some  time  been  crying 
for  the  privilege  of  assuming  the  concrete. 

The  writer  has  felt  that  in  this  day  of 
crumbling  creeds,  of  discarded  philosophies  and 
shattered  illusions  there  is  a  crying  need  for  some 
voice  to  proclaim  the  doctrine  of  HOPE;  the 
doctrine  of  that  hope  which  has  stalked  boldly 
down  the  centuries  casting  to  rearward  like  out- 
worn garments  its  tattered  and  faded  creeds  and 
philosophies,  that  hope  which  in  spite  of  antagon- 
istic philosophy  reigns  indomitably  in  the  human 
breast  and  which  is  today  the  sole  religion  of  the 
unchurched  millions,  that  hope  which  knows  not 
defeat  and  recognizes  not  reason,  but  placidly, 
fatefully  leads  humanity  over  the  chaotic  quick- 
sands of  shifting  thought  toward  the  final 
realization  of  the  rightness  of  things.  This 
doctrine  of  Hope  he  has  endeavored  to  proclaim. 


PROEM. 


Mnx  ij0p^  alntt^ 

AttJi  tl|0ugl|t0  mill  Jtt^ 

jj^t]?  tjop^  mill  liu0- 


IN    CONCLUSION. 


I. 


Full  wearied  with  the  ways  of  men, 

And  worn  by  stress  of  fruitless  thought 
Concerning  things  beyond  my  ken, 

A  restful  solitude  I  sought. 
I  climbed  me  to  a  lonely  height 

That  towers  beside  the  surging  sea 
Where  far  below  the  billows  fight 

In  frothing  riot  wild  and  free. 


II 


And  there  I  sat  me  on  the  rocks 

That  overhang  the  gulf  below, 
And  watched  the  frightened  screaming  flocks 

Of  sea  mews,  white  as  driven  snow, 
Which  swim  through  amplitudes  of  space 

Like  thoughts  released  from  mind^s  control. 
In  vain  attempt  to  faintly  trace 

The  mystic  mazes  of  the  soul. 


30  In    Conclusion 


III 


Like  thoughts  to  sweep  before  the  wind 

On  steady  wing,  direct,  alone, 
To  search  the  pathless  sky  and  find 

New  courses  through  the  vast  unknown. 
And  musing  thus  I  looked  below, 

Beheld  the  battle  of  the  seas, 
And  looking,  longed  in  vain  to  know 

Of  life  and  all  its  mysteries. 


IV 


The  truth  of  things,  of  time  and  place. 

The  purpose  of  this  mystic  scheme 
That  holds  our  lives  in  its  embrace, 

The  motive  of  this  living  dream 
In  which  we  act  our  written  parts, 

Nor  dare  to  drop  from  out  the  dance 
Though  weary  grow  at  times  our  hearts 

Beneath  the  heavy  hand  of  Chance. 


In    Conclusion 


31 


I  longed  to  know,  and  longing,  knew 

I  had  no  right  to  long  to  know, 
Yet  willful  thought  would  e'er  pursue 

The  underworkings  of  the  show; 
Like  some  lost  sea  bird  of  the  night. 

Would  throw  herself  against  the  pane 
_Where  gleamed  the  golden  harbor  light, 

A  beacon  through  the  driving  rain. 


VI 


Or  like  some  spectral  form  would  tread 

The  shell  strewn  hallways  of  the  seas 
Where  roll  the  bones  of  ancient  dead 

To  time  of  sea  sung  melodies, 
And  forms,  undreamed  by  mortal  mind, 

Go  shuffling  through  the  amber  gloom, 
Weird,  ghostly  shapes  that  can  not  find 

Their  sea  tossed  bones  a  quiet  tomb. 


32  In    Conclusion  i 

I 

I 

VII  i 

And  then  grim  Fancy's  tireless  way  I 

Would  wend  o'er  sandy  sea-swept  plains  , 

Where  somber  ships  ill-fated  lay  j 

Bedraped  in  swaying  rusty  chains ;  I 

Where  casks  and  chests  of  tarnished  gold  | 

Are  scattered  o'er  the  yellow  sand,  ; 

The  wasted  wealth  of  tyrants  old,  > 

Untouched  today  by  human  hand.  ] 


VIII 

But  what  to  him  are  gold  and  ships 

Who  seeks  alone  the  truth  of  things, 
What  wisdom  from  the  ocean's  lips. 

What  council  in  its  murmurings? 
No  signal  comes  from  out  the  deeps. 

No  answer  from  the  surf-swept  shore, 
But  Thought  her  tireless  vigil  keeps 

And  thinking,  questions  evermore. 


In    Conclusion 


33 


IX 


And  wrapped  in  wonder  lifts  her  eyes 
Unto  the  boundless  void  of  space, 

And  hurls  her  questions  at  the  skies, 
And  wildly  dreaming,  tries  to  trace 

The  purpose  of  the  swinging  spheres. 
The  hidden  scheme  of  living  things, 

But  wonder  as  she  will,  she  hears 
^m  No  answer  to  her  questionings. 

■^  And  on  the  wings  of  Fancy,  flees 
I^P  More  swiftly  than  the  flight  of  time, 

Through  far  etherial  azure  seas 

On  up  the  vaulted  skies,  to  climb 
To  port  so  dimly  distant  placed. 

No  roaming  dream  has  e'er  before  , 
O'er  tides  of  drifting  ether  traced 
A  trail  to  its  forbidden  shore. 


X 


34  In    Conclusion 


XI 


Still  onward,  upward,  till  at  last 

With  weary  wing  the  port  is  gained. 
And  countless  cycling  suns  are  passed, 

But  nought  of  value  is  obtained. 
For  stars  uncounted  drift  and  dream 

And  flash  their  secret  signals  o'er 
The  vast  abyss  where  port  lights  gleam 

As  dim  and  distant  as  before. 


XII 

She  sees  the  countless  systems  cast 

Within  the  systems  to  the  end. 
But  where  the  sequence  ends  at  last 

No  dream  of  hers  can  comprehend; 
She  sees  the  systems  she  has  known, 

Like  wheat  from  out  the  sower's  hand. 
Strewn  out  across  the  sky  and  thrown 

In  ways  she  can  not  understand. 


In    Conclusion  35 


XIII 

And  like  a  baffled  bird  that  tries 

To  fight  the  tempest  all  in  vain, 
She  turns  her  on  her  course  and  flies 

To  shelter  in  the  mind  again, 
And  still  the  stars  swing  on  their  way, 

The  tides  go  streaming  out  to  sea, 
And  all  the  chords  of  nature  play 

One  ceaseless,  matchless  symphony. 


I 


XIV 

And  thus  my  thoughts  had  gone  in  quest  : 

Of  aught  to  quench  my  deep  desire,  1 

Of  aught  to  soothe  the  wild  unrest  i 

That  burned  within,  a  glowing  fire,  ^ 

And  worn  and  wearied  had  returned  | 

With  drooping  wing  and  sullied  plume,  ^ 
,  Had  brought  me  nought  for  which  I  yearned, 

And  plunged  me  in  a  deeper  gloom.  ) 


36  In    Conclusion 


XV 

I  heard  the  surging  of  the  sea 

In  slowly  measured  throbs  ascend, 

The  pulsing  of  eternity- 
Advancing  to  its  endless  end, 

Till  stricken  down,  a  beaten  thing, 
A  hound  that  cringes  at  the  feet, 

Proud  Thought  retreated,  whimpering. 
Into  her  kennel-like  retreat. 


XVI 

Nor  stirred  her,  hound-like  lying  low ; 

With  restless  eyes  that  witnessed  all. 
She  watched  the  hand  that  gave  the  blow 

And  listened  for  an  unheard  call, 
Till  thought  grew  madness  waiting  there. 

Confined,  submissive  as  the  brute, 
And  rising,  called  in  wild  despair, 

''Give  unto  me  truth  absolute." 


In    Conclusion  37 


XVII 

And  lo !  a  hand  was  on  my  head, 

A  husky  voice  was  in  my  ear, 
And  o'er  my  beating  heart  was  spread 

The  shadow  of  an  unknown  fear, 
For  spectral  forms,  diversely  dressed 

In  guises  strange,  surrounded  me 
Upon  the  headland's  lofty  crest. 

Above  the  wild,  complaining  sea. 


I 


XVIII 

patriarch  with  grizzled  beard. 

With  toothless  jaws  and  hoary  head. 
With  eyes  bedimmed  with  age  and  bleared 

With  years  of  stressful  thought  which  shed 
No  light  upon  the  truth  of  things. 

Spoke  first  of  all  the  ghostly  throng. 
While  I  with  wildest  wonderings 

By  his  weird  words  was  swept  along. 


38  In    Conclusion 


XIX 

"My  son/'  said  he,  "dissolve  thy  dream, 
'Tis  but  a  bubble  filled  with  breath, 

Thou  art  a  leaf  upon  the  stream 

Which  flows  but  to  the  land  of  death. 

Thine  only  life  is  here  and  now, 
Thou  art  a  toy  of  Fate's  decree 

With  'Finis'  written  on  thy  brow; — 
My  name  is  called  'Philosophy/ 


XX 

"I  heard  you  crying,"  said  the  sage, 

"A  cry  I  oft  have  heard  before, 
The  slogan  of  each  passing  age, 

A  cry  unanswered  evermore, 
A  cry  which  ever  wildly  rings 

From  out  the  hopeful  heart  of  youth 
To  die  among  its  echoings, 

'Give  unto  me  the  TRUTH!  the  TRUTH!' 


In    Conclusion  39 


XXI 

"The  truth,  my  son,  is  but  a  dream, 

A  phantom  of  the  Great  Unknown ; 
The  truth  is  but  the  color  scheme 

Across  the  skies  at  sunset  thrown ; 
The  truth  is  but  the  shifting  sand, 

Reshaped  by  every  gust  of  men; 
The  clay  within  the  potter's  hand. 

Constructed  and  destroyed  again. 


XXII 


Yea,  even  as  the  sparks  will  fly 

From  out  the  forge's  glowing  womb, 
And  rise  into  the  inky  sky 

To  fade  into  the  ebon  gloom, 
So  truth  will  ever  rise  and  fall. 

And  creeds  and  faiths  will  ever  show 
That  truth  is  never  truth  at  all. 

As  far  as  minds  of  men  can  know. 


40  In    Conclusion 


XXIII 

"The  hollow  creeds  are  all  in  vain, 

Their  fancied  gods  have  followed  fast, 
Each  one  to  have  its  transient  reign 

And  fade  into  the  endless  past, 
But  minds  of  men  will  ever  build 

New  creeds  and  faiths  where  others  fail, 
And  human  hearts  with  blindness  filled 

Will  pray  to  gods  with  no  avail.*' 


XXIV 

And  lifting  up  one  palsied  hand, 

With  purpled  veins  and  fingers  long, 
He  pointed  to  the  ghostly  band 

And  sneered  at  all  the  spectral  throng. 
"Behold/'  said  he,  "the  creeds  of  men, 

The  fabled  dreams  and  blind  beliefs, 
The  childish  myth  of  'faith,'  and  then 

Content  you  with  such  vain  reliefs. 


In    Conclusion 


41 


XXV 

"But  think  you  not,  my  son,"  said  he, 

"That  things  which  you  can  not  conceive 
Do  not  exist  eternally, 

For,  in  the  scheme  of  things  that  weave 
Their  varied  threads  through  time  and  space, 

There  is  intention,  thought,  and  will, 
And  though  in  vain  you  try  to  trace 

The  great  design,  it  weaveth  still. 


XXVI 


"The  truth  herself,  in  spite  of  all 

The  long  parade  of  passing  thought, 
In  spite  of  dreams  that  rise  and  fall, 

Within  the  grasp  of  Fate  is  caught 
And  wrapped  in  robes  of  gleaming  gold, 

Is  set  upon  a  lofty  throne 
To  reign  in  state,  and  reigning  hold 

The  scepter  of  the  great  unknown. 


42  In    Conclusion 


XXVII 

"Yea,  Truth  herself,  must  ever  be 

The  absolute  of  things  that  are; 
The  ruler  of  Infinity ; 

The  motive  of  each  swinging  star ; 
And  minds  of  men  will  ever  strive, 

Will  long  to  reach  her  shrine  in  vain, 
And  withered  hopes  will  oft  revive. 

But  hopes  revived  will  fail  again. 


XXVIII 

"The  mind  of  man  is  e'er  possessed 

By  wildest  dreams  and  vain  desire. 
Is  filled  with  longing  and  unrest, 

A  fierce,  consuming,  inward  fire 
And  as  the  twilight  moths  will  rise 

Toward  the  torch,  by  fancy  caught. 
And  deem  the  flame  a  golden  prize 

Such  is  the  fate  of  human  thought. 


In    Conclusion 


43 


XXIX 

"But  think  you  will  for  think  you  must, 

Though  all  your  thoughts  you  think  in  vain. 
Though  all  your  dreams  but  end  in  dust, 

For  thoughtlessness  is  worse  than  pain. 
You  can  not  hope  to  bail  the  sea 

Of  truth,  nor  stem  the  tide  of  fact 
With  tea  cups  of  mentality. 

But  better  fail  than  not  to  act. 


XXX 


'But  when  your  dreams  are  dreamed  and  done. 

The  creeds,  the  prayers,  the  faiths  of  man, 
When  all  their  cycling  course  is  run, 

They  end  the  race  where  they  began. 
And  thought  will  pause  and  turn  her  gaze. 

By  some  strange  freak  of  fancy  caught, 
Upon  the  folly  of  her  ways 

And  ask  in  wonder,  *What  is  thought?' 


44  In   Conclusion 


XXXI 

"A  hand  that  clutches  at  the  gloom 

Which  shrouds  the  mystic  form  of  things, 
A  voice  which  cries  against  its  doom 

And  dies  among  its  echoings, 
A  bleeding  fist  that  mangled  falls 

Ere  yet  it  jars  the  close'd  gate, 
A  writhing,  conquered  thing  that  calls 

In  accents  most  disconsolate." 


XXXII 

And,  as  the  sage  thus  spoke  to  me, 

A  murmur  from  the  ghostly  throng 
Rose  high  above  the  surging  sea 

In  one  complaining  common  song; 
Around  us  swept  the  motley  crowd 

Of  spectres  dressed  in  strange  disguise. 
With  cowl  and  surplice,  veil  and  shroud, 

And  all  with  hollow  sightless  eyes. 


In    Conclusion 


45 


XXXIII 

The  priesthood  of  the  Great  Soudan, 

Of  Egypt  and  of  far  Cathay, 
The  torture  fiends  of  Hindustan, 

Had  gathered  for  the  coming  fray. 
All  orders  of  the  fiends  of  prayer 

Had  risen  from  their  beds  of  blood 
To  battle  on  the  headland  there 

Above  the  wild  complaining  flood. 


XXXIV 


And  charging  forth  with  gnashing  teeth, 
With  frothing  lips  and  demon's  glee, 

They  cursed  the  skies  and  all  beneath, 
And  fell  upon  Philosophy. 

But,  strange  to  say,  the  ancient  Sage 
'  Awoke,  a  giant  in  their  path, 

He  fought  with  strength  of  blinding  rage, 
And  smote  them  in  his  heated  wrath. 


4-6  In    Conclusion 


XXXV 

I  gloried  as  I  watched  the  mill 

And  saw  the  Sage  with  ready  staff 
Beat  out  the  lives  of  creeds  until 

They  gave  him  way  like  driven  chaff. 
There  stealthy  monks  with  torture  screws 

And  druids  old  with  cruel  knives 
Were  forced  in  fiendish  war  to  lose 

The  final  battle  of  their  lives. 


XXXVI 

They  fled  before  the  rising  ire 

Which  glowed  upon  the  Sage's  face, 
Their  one  controlling,  vain  desire 

To  get  them  from  the  fated  place. 
And  like  a  herd  of  frightened  sheep 

They  hurled  them  from  the  mountain  side. 
From  off  the  headland's  lofty  steep, 

Into  the  frothing,  streaming  tide. 


I  ft    Conclusion 


47 


XXXVII 

And  when  the  heated  fray  was  o'er 

We  thought  ourselves  at  last  alone, 
And  standing  on  the  lofty  shore 

We  heard  the  ocean's  undertone, 
The  mouthing  of  the  hungry  sea, 

Like  some  she-tiger  wild  for  blood, 
Whose  white  teeth  clashed  with  savage  glee 

About  the  boulders  in  the  flood. 


XXXVIII 


watched  the  face  of  him  who  stood 

Beside  me  on  the  lonely  height. 
And  read  his  thoughts  as  only  could 

A  kindred  soul  who  sought  the  light. 
I  saw  the  saddened  heart  of  him 

Portrayed  upon  his  furrowed  face. 
And  saw  his  eyes  with  woe  aswim 

Still  mutely  question  time  and  space. 


48  I n    C  0  n  c  lusi  o  n 


XXXIX 

Oh !  prayerless  soul !    The  void  how  deep ! 

How  helpless  are  the  hands  that  lift 
Themselves  in  anguish  as  we  weep, 

When  blind  illusion's  curtains  shift! 
Oh,  dream  returned !    Thy  homing  sail 

Brings  not  the  treasure  which  ye  sought ! 
Oh,  heart  of  mine,  of  what  avail 

This  Juggernaut  of  deeper  thought! 


XL 

And  thus  oppressed  I  sat  me  still. 

Nor  cared  to  hear  nor  witness  more, 
My  heart  was  steeped  in  woe  until 

I  longed  to  leap  me  from  the  shore, 
While  o'er  the  mountains  and  the  sea 

There  fell  a  dark  and  gloomy  shade, 
And  sadness  o'er  the  soul  of  me 

Her  robe  of  ebon  blackness  laid. 


In    Conclusion  49 


XLI 

But  still,  beneath  the  gloom  and  woe 

There  burned  a  glowing  vital  spark, 
There  still  were  thoughts  that  would  not  go 

Nor  yield  them  to  the  densest  dark, 
A  fire  that  like  some  midnight  flame 

But  glowed  the  brighter  for  the  gloom, 
And  o'er  my  bowing  soul  there  came 

A  wild  defiance  of  its  doom. 


XLII 

id  looking  at  Philosophy 

I  saw  his  face  grow  cold  and  stern. 
His  thoughtful  eyes  were  set  on  me, 

I  saw  their  depths  with  menace  burn. 
^  His  gnarl'ed  staff  was  lying  by, 
\         He  seized  it  in  his  withered  hand, 
And  '*blood''  was  written  in  his  eye, 

A  sign  that  I  could  understand. 


50  In    Conclusion 


XLIII 

I  rose  me  to  the  coming  fray 

With  vivid  thoughts  of  witnessed  deeds, 
With  recollections  of  the  way 

He  slew  the  countless  charging  creeds. 
I  set  upon  the  waiting  sage 

Who  chuckled  now  a  mirthless  laugh 
And,  sneering  at  my  puny  rage, 

He  smote  me  with  his  crooked  staff. 


XLIV 

He  seized  upon  me  then,  as  though 

He  sought  to  throw  me  from  the  cliff 
Into  the  frothing  seas  below, 

And  chuckled  to  himself  as  if 
He  thought  the  spinning  worlds  would  be 

Far  better  off  than  now,  without 
A  doubter  of  Philosophy 

To  spread  infection  'round  about. 


In    Conclusion  51 


XLV 

But  lo !  a  hand  was  on  my  head, 

A  voice  of  strength  was  in  my  ear, 
And  o'er  my  failing  heart  was  shed 

A  light  that  burned  with  lustre  clear, 
And  by  my  side,  encased  in  mail. 

There  stood  a  form  whose  face  revealed 
A  courage  that  could  never  fail. 

And  "HOPE'*  was  written  on  his  shield. 


XLVI 

And  in  his  hand  he  held  a  blade 

Of  gleaming  steel  and  pattern  old. 
The  helmet  on  his  head  was  made 

Of  burnished  sheets  of  beaten  gold. 
His  stalwart  limbs  when  e'er  they  moved 

Below  the  mail  in  which  he  dressed. 
In  rythmic  undulations  proved 

The  mighty  strength  which  he  possessed. 


52  In    Conclusion 


XLVII 

"Take  heart  O  Soul/'  he  said  to  me 

In  accents  strange  and  strongly  true; 
"Arise  and  watch  and  you  shall  see 

How  much  the  blade  of  Hope  can  do." 
And  holding  high  his  gleaming  blade 

He  charged  with  laughter  to  the  fray, 
And  with  one  sweeping  stroke  he  laid 

The  Sage  across  the  stony  way. 


XLVIII 

Then  lifting  high  his  trusty  blade 

With  foot  upon  his  fallen  foe, 
This  declaration  there  he  made, 

"The  God  of  Right  has  willed  it  so. 
I  conquer  in  the  name  of  Truth 

Whose  subject  I  have  been  from  birth, 
I  conquer  in  the  name  of  Youth, 

Of  Happiness,  of  Life,  and  Worth. 


In    Conclusion  53 


XLIX 

''My  name  is  HOPE.    I  hold  the  place 

Of  envoy  from  the  Master  Mind. 
I  bring  unto  the  human  race 

The  light  that  Knowledge  fain  would  find 
By  delving  mole-like  through  the  crust 

Of  mouldy  thought,  with  blinded  eyes, 
With  eyes  too  filled  with  earthly  dust 

To  read  the  teachings  of  the  skies/' 


And  stooping  low  he  caught  the  sage 

And  hurled  him  to  the  growling  sea, 
Whose  hungry  maw  with  angry  rage 

At  once  consumed  Philosophy. 
I  loked  at  HOPE  in  silent  awe, 

Nor  dared  to  speak  a  fleeting  doubt 
Concerning  that  I  heard  and  saw. 

So  utter  was  the  Sage's  rout. 


54  In    Conclusion 


LI 


But  deep  within  my  soul  there  thrilled 

A  chord  that  answered  to  the  things 
The  Sage  had  said,  ere  HOPE  had  killed 

And  fed  him  to  the  sea  that  flings 
Its  ghostly  arms  about  the  stones 

And  wails  like  vampires  drunk  with  gore, 
In  fiendish,  hollow,  ghoulish  tones 

Along  the  spume-swept,  rocky  shore. 


LII 

But  like  a  flood  of  April's  sun 

Too  strong  for  clouds  or  fleeting  rain, 
When  once  his  gruesome  task  was  done. 

The  face  of  HOPE  was  wreathed  again 
In  smiles,  so  bright  that  even  I 

Forgot  the  shadows  that  were  hung 
Across  my  soul's  beclouded  sky, 

And  far  gloomy  curtains  flung. 


In    Conclusion  55 


LIII 

And  HOPE  advanced  him  to  my  side 

Where,  stripping  off  his  shield  and  blade, 
He  sat  him  down  and  gayly  tried 

To  ease  the  wound  the  Sage  had  made. 
And  sitting  thus  upon  the  cliff, 

He  spoke  of  things,  of  time,  and  men, 
Until  my  heart  rejoiced  as  if 

It  ne'er  would  feel  a  woe  again. 


LIV 


Said  he,  '1  heard  while  on  the  height 

That  towers  to  rearward  of  the  sea, 
The  echoes  of  the  fiendish  fight 

That  raged  about  Philosophy; 
I  heard  the  teachings  of  the  Sage ; 

I  saw  you  lend  a  willing  ear; 
At  last  I  gloried  in  your  rage 

And,  drawing  blade,  I  waited  near. 


56  In    Conclusion 


LV 

"  'Twas  written  in  the  book  of  life 

That  creeds  and  thoughts  should  play  their  parts, 
That  living  should  be  made  of  strife, 

Of  puzzled  heads,  and  aching  hearts, 
That  man  should  pass  from  stage  to  stage, 

From  childish  hope  to  creeds  of  pain. 
From  blind  belief  to  thoughtful  age, 

And  then  from  thought  to  hope  again. 


LVI 

"And  long  ago  the  Master  Mind 

Alloted  to  my  special  care 
All  gloomy  hearts  that  I  could  find, 

And  bade  me  light  His  beacons  there; 
He  placed  a  blade  within  my  hand 

So  keen  that  all  must  fall  before. 
He  gave  me  strength  to  wield  it,  and 

He  sent  me  to  this  Earthly  shore. 


In    Conclusion 


57 


LVII 

"I  came  in  ages  long  ago, 

Long,  long  before  the  budding  scheme 
Of  human  life  had  bloomed  to  show 

The  beauty. of  its  Maker's  dream, 
Back  where  lush  grasses  stood  in  rank, 

Knee  deep  in  tepid,  slumbrous  seas, 
And  silence  reigned  o*er  marsh  and  bank, 

Unwaked  through  dead  eternities. 


LVIII 


"Back  on  the  faded  trail  of  time 

I  watched  as  human  life  began, 
A  senseless  clot  of  clinging  slime 

In  those  dark  pools  silurian : 
I  followed  up  the  climbing  scale, 

With  ever  ready  arm  and  blade. 
Which  like  some  all-determined  snail 

Crept  slowly  up  the  trying  grade.^ 


58  In    Conclusion 


LIX 

"And  lo !  at  last  I  saw  evolved 

A  man  complete  with  mind  and  heart : 
I  saw  the  cruder  man  dissolved 

And  marveled  in  our  Maker's  art. 
And  as  some  lonely  hermit  sees 

The  blooming  of  a  rose  divine 
And  revels  in  its  fragrancies, 

So  I  received  this  man  of  mine. 


LX 

"I  watched  with  joy  the  Master  Hand 

Reach  down  with  taper,  and  ignite 
The  torches  of  his  longings,  and 

I  saw  his  face  grow  tense  and  bright : 
I  saw  the  burning  queries  glow 

Behind  the  windows  of  his  eyes ; 
And  saw  his  mind  awake,  and  throw 

Its  countless  questions  at  the  skies. 


In    Conclusion 


59 


LXI 

''And  then  I  saw  that  not  in  vain 

Had  been  the  session  of  my  wait, 
That  now  at  last  were  joy  and  pain, 

And  human  hearts  would  vacillate 
From  lofty  heights  of  happiness 

To  deepest  depths  of  misery. 
And  in  their  folly  and  distress 

My  men  at  last  had  need  of  me. 


LXII 


*'And  so  through  all  the  fleeting  years 

I  fight  the  ghosts  of  their  despair, 
I  trade  them  sunshine  for  their  tears. 

And  flush  their  souls  of  woe  and  care; 
My  blade  is  at  their  least  command 

In  doting  age  as  well  as  youth ; 
I  take  each  proffered,  groping  hand 

And  place  it  in  the  grasp  of  Truth.  ' 


6o  In    Conclusion 


LXIII 

"I  hear  them  crying  in  the  night 

The  same  old  cry  forever  new, 
'Show  unto  us  a  clearer  light ! 

Point  out  to  us  the  high  and  true !' 
And  seizing  on  my  trusty  blade 

I  trail  them  through  the  inky  gloom, 
And,  finding  them,  at  last  persuade 

And  lead  them  from  their  somber  doom. 


LXIV 

"But  fain  are  men  to  dwell  in  need, 

To  haunt  the  dark  and  dreary  ways, 
And  loath  to  listen  to,  or  heed 

The  voice  that  speaks  of  life  to  praise. 
They  call  for  Truth,  and  then  refuse 

The  proffered  hand  that  Truth  would  give, 
And  in  their  blinded  longings  lose 

The  light  of  Truth,  and  longing  live. 


In    Conclusion 


61 


LXV 

''And  you  have  called  within  the  hour/' 

He  said  with  smile  bewreathed  face, 
"For  Truth  and  superhuman  power 

To  comprehend  all  time  and  space, 
And  Truth  has  stood  beside  you  here. 

Her  hand  has  hovered  o'er  your  head, 
And  yet  your  heart  beat  wild  with  fear. 

Your  craven  soul  was  filled  with  dread. 


LXVI 


"The  Truth,  herself,  is  absolute 

In  that  the  Truth  is  one  and  all 
In  that  her  precincts  constitute 

The  all  unbounded  realms  that  fall 
Beyond  the  spheres  of  time  and  place 

Of  mere  effect  and  hidden  Cause 
And  altogether  plainly  trace 

The  mystic  beauty  of  her  laws. 


62  In    Conclusion 


LXVII 

*'The  Truth  is  Master,  child,  and  man. 

Is  clod  and  stream  and  growing  thing, 

The  Truth  is  all  the  mighty  plan 

Through  which  the  countless  systems  swing, 

The  Truth  is  life,  is  joy,  and  breath, 

The  penciled  chart,  and  He  who  drew, 

The  Truth  is  music,  woe,  and  death. 
The  scanned,  and  still  the  scanner  too. 


LXVIII 

"The  Truth  is  you  and  even  I, 

And  even  still  the  dreams  you  dream. 
The  false  is  Truth,  though  you  may  try 

In  vain  to  understand  the  scheme. 
There  is  no  false.    Could  we  but  see 

The  full  intent  of  things  we  call 
'The  false  in  life,'  it  then  would  be 

That  we  would  understand  it  all. 


In    Conclusion 


63 


LXIX 

*'But  can  the  bowls  upon  the  shelves, 

The  spinning  clay  upon  the  wheel, 
Propound  these  questions  to  themselves, 

Or  ask  the  potter  to  reveal 
The  secrets  of  his  varied  arts, 

Or  bid  him  tell  to  full  extent 
The  nature  of  their  destined  parts. 

The  end  for  which  they  each  were  meant? 


LXX 


"Nor  need  the  sands  upon  the  shore 

Decry  the  fate  that  has  denied 
That  they  should  know  their  goal,  before 

They  yield  them  to  the  sweeping  tide; 
For  He,  who  holds  the  streaming  seas 

As  helpless  bondsmen  to  His  will, 
Has  watched  through  dim  eternities 

Each  grain  of  sand  and  watches  still. 


64  In    Conclusion 


LXXI 

"And  yet  you  drifting  human  sands, 

Before  you  yield  to  certain  laws, 
With  weeping  eyes  and  wringing  hands 

Decry  your  fate  and  curse  the  Cause 
Who  sweeps  you  on  to  things  unknown, 

Nor  hears  nor  cares  to  hear  your  plea. 
For  what  advice  can  crumbled  stone 

Submit  to  All  Infinity? 


LXXII 

'*You  vainly  strive  to  gain  reply, 

You  blindly  boast  in  your  conceit, 
And  simple  men  will  ever  try 

To  hide  the  fact  of  their  defeat. 
But  those,  whose  search  for  Truth  entails 

Their  fervent  prayers  and  bowing  heads, 
Are  fools  who  fish  for  plunging  whales 

With  bended  pins  and  cotton  threads. 


In    Conclusion  65 


LXXIII 

''Like  fiery  blossoms  of  the  night 

The  rockets  of  theology- 
Have  raised  their  swaying  stems  of  light 

Toward  the  distant  Galaxy, 
But  wearied,  ere  they  well  began, 

They  hung  their  sprays  of  crimson  bloom 
Across  the  mental  dusk  of  man. 

And  faded  in  a  deeper  gloom. 


LXXIV 


"The  trail  from  out  the  distant  past, 

Is  thickly  strewn  with  sticks  that  lay 
A  mute  rebuke  to  those  who  cast 

Their  glances  rearward  o'er  the  way, 
And  all  the  restless  thoughts  of  men 

That  e'er  have  wandered  off  in  quest 
Of  Truth,  have  wandered  back  again 

To  know  that  search  is  only  jest. 


66  In    Conclusion 


LXXV 

"For  how  may  Truth  deciphered  be 

By  thought,  while  thought  is  yet  so  small, 
While  Truth  is  all  infinity, 

The  thought,  the  thinker,  one  and  all? 
No,  thought  is  not  the  scale  to  span 

That  boundless,  all  unmeasured  sky, 
Nor  is  the  tea-spoon  skull  of  man 

The  bowl  to  bail  its  oceans  dry. 


LXXVI 

"All  human  life  is  as  a  spur 

Upon  the  tooth'ed  wheel  of  time. 
That  cog  but  one  of  all  that  whir 

Within  the  mighty  mill  sublime ; 
But  every  spur  upon  the  wheel, 

As  long  as  all  the  wheels  shall  run, 
May  trust  the  Miller  Man,  and  feel 

That  he  is  watching  every  one. 


In    Conclusion  67 


LXXVII 

''Nor  need  the  spinning  spurs  demand 

That  they  should  know  the  Master's  mind, 
That  metal  teeth  should  understand 

The  purpose  of  the  meal  they  grind, 
Suffice  that  they  as  teeth  fulfill 

The  end  for  which  they  first  were  cast, 
Mute  subjects  of  a  Master's  will, 

For  such  will  be  their  fate  at  last. 


LXXVIII 

''Nor  need  the  spurs  refuse  to  move, 

For  move  they  will  upon  their  way. 
Though  they  in  vain  should  want  to  prove 

Themselves  above  their  Master's  sway. 
And  so,  thou  Soul,  it  is  with  you 

Who  vainly  questions  through  the  years 
The  purpose  that  is  woven  through 

The  swinging  systems  of  the  spheres. 


68  In    Conclusion 


LXXIX 

''What  need  have  you  to  know  the  cause 

Of  all  that  is  or  yet  shall  be? 
Of  what  concern  to  you  the  laws 

That  govern  all  eternity  ? 
And  why  should  you,  whose  life  is  laid 

Within  the  hollow  of  His  hand, 
Behold  the  future  all  afraid 

Because  you  can  not  understand? 


LXXX 

"Or  why  upraise  your  voice  in  prayer 

To  tell  Him  of  the  things  He  knows, 
And  plead  with  Him  to  have  a  care, 

To  take  advice  which  you  propose? 
Or  why  request  that  He  should  move 

Or  halt  His  changeless  scheme,  because 
Your  finite  mind  would  fain  improve 

The  master  purpose  of  His  laws? 


In    Conclusion  69 


LXXXI 

"Or  why  demand  that  you  should  call 

The  Cause  by  any  given  name. 
While  human  minds  are  yet  so  small 

And  human  words  so  halt  and  lame? 
Of  what  avail  are  written  creeds, 

Are  painted  gods  and  printed  prayers, 
Since  worth  depends  on  worthy  deeds 

And  not  on  hollow,  lofty  airs? 


LXXII 


'What  though  that  power  which  ''GOD"  implies, 

Who  drives  the  suns,  like  scattered  sheep 
Across  the  uplands  of  the  skies. 

Has  not  intrusted  to  your  keep 
The  secrets  of  His  realm,  that  runs 

Beyond  the  farthest  stars  that  stray 
About  the  pasture  of  the  suns, 

Are  you  to  grumble  or  to  pray?'* 


yo  In    Conclusion 


LXXXIII 

And,  like  some  strong  and  heady  wine 

Which  wildly  races  through  the  brain, 
The  words  of  HOPE  had  flowed  through  mine. 

And  cleansed  it  of  mistrust  and  pain. 
My  heart  was  filled  with  deep  content, 

And  pulsed  with  love  for  friend  and  foe; 
My  woes  were  gone,  but  where  they  went 

I  knew  not  then,  nor  cared  to  know. 


LXXXIV 

And  life  for  me  had  changed  its  form, 

Like  some  rare  rose  in  twilight's  gloom 
Had  burst  into  a  velvet  storm 

Of  gorgeous  color  and  perfume, 
And  in  my  heart,  serene  and  deep. 

There  reigned  an  all-consuming  trust. 
That  He  who  had  my  life  in  keep 

Would  use  me  well,  for  He  is  just. 


In    Conclusion 


71 


LXXXV 

I  knew  Him  not,  nor  cared  to  know, 

Since  He  was  all  and  I  was  nought, 
Since  He  had  seen  it  fit  to  show 

That  I  was  ever  in  His  thought. 
And  o'er  my  helpless  human  head 

I  felt  the  presence  of  His  hand. 
And  all  mistrust  of  life  had  fled, 

Though  I  could  never  understand. 


LXXXVI 


And  HOPE,  with  gentle  smiling  face, 

Again  took  up  his  shield  and  blade, 
^And  rose  him  from  his  resting  place. 

While  o'er  his  features  brightly  played 
^  A  wild  delight  as  he  perceived 

The  vanquished  ghosts  of  my  despair. 
And  knew  a  heart  had  been  relieved 

Of  useless  sorrow,  gloom,  and  care. 


^2  In    Conclusion 


LXXXVII 

"My  Soul/'  said  he,  "I  leave  with  you 

The  cheer  of  life  I  seek  to  give, 
The  good  of  life  that  I  would  do 

For  all  the  gloomy  souls  that  live. 
The  light  of  trust  in  Vested  Power, 

The  firm  conviction  all  is  right. 
The  staunch  belief  at  midnight's  hour 

That  dawn  will  follow  after  night. 


LXXXVIII 

'T  charge  you  to  collect  the  toll 

From  all  the  joys  today  can  give. 
To  live  in  heart,  in  mind,  and  soul, 

The  life  that  every  man  should  live, 
To  live  and  help  your  brother  man 

To  help  himself,  and  so  help  you, 
To  live  and  do  what  good  you  can 

And  then  to  die  when  all  is  through. 


In    Conclusion 


73 


LXXXIX 

''To  die  with  stalwart  strength,  and  know 

That  over  all  the  Master  Mind 
Perceives  the  progress  of  the  show, 

And  death  is  but  as  He  designed. 
And  trust  that  good  must  be  concealed 

Behind  the  shadow  of  the  shroud, 
And  know  that  sunshine  unrevealed 

Is  sunshine  still,  behind  the  cloud. 


XC 


"For  He  whose  seeming  ruthless  hand 

Bestrips  the  poppy  of  its  flame, 
Who  smites  the  roses  where  they  stand, 

And  lays  the  broken  lilies  lame 
Across  the  clods  from  which  they  grew, 

Has  purpose  though  you  can  not  see 
Nor  hope  to  know  the  things  He  knew 

When  He  designed  immensity. 


74  In    Conclusion 


XCI 

**So  die  and  lay  you  down  to  rest, 

With  human  fears  and  doubts  dissolved, 
With  firm  belief  that  all  is  best 

As  in  the  mystic  scheme  evolved, 
No  matter  if  that  scheme  demand 

That  you  as  one  shall  cease  to  be, 
That  you  as  one  shall  understand 

No  more  of  all  its  mystery. 


XCII 

"And,  if  to  Him  who  rules,  it  seems. 

That  men  should  play  a  sleeping  part. 
Mere  ciphers  in  the  Land  of  Dreams, 

A  cipher  be,  with  cheerful  heart. 
And  know  that  He  who  bids  you  cease 

To  comprehend  the  ways  of  men. 
Can  bring  you  silence,  rest,  and  peace. 

And  when  He  wills,  create  again. 


In    Conclusion  75 


XCIII 

"Or  if  as  man  in  vain  would  know, 

This  death  is  but  a  transient  pause, 
A  halt  within  the  moving  show, 

In  full  accordance  with  its  laws, 
A  readjusting  of  the  scenes 

Upon  the  curtained  stage  of  time, 
A  rearrangement  of  the  screens 

To  bring  about  effects  sublime. 


XCIV 

"And  man  an  actor  treads  again 

A  future  stage  of  better  things, 
Bestripped  of  robes  of  Earthly  pain, 

And  rearrayed  in  figurings 
As  brilliant  as  the  gems  that  gleam 

Where  dewy  roses  bow  and  blow; 
If  this  perchance  is  not  a  dream. 

Then  surely  death  is  shorn  of  woe. 


76  In    Conclusion 


xcv 

*'But  I  must  wend  me  on  my  way 

To  fight  the  ghosts  of  men's  despair, 
To  turn  their  mental  night  to  day." 

And  speaking  thus  he  left  me  there. 
With  springing  step  he  climbed  the  height 

That  towers  to  rearward  of  the  sea. 
And  from  his  golden  shield  the  light 

Was  thrown  in  showers  of  brilliancy. 


XCVI 

And  lo!  I  found  myself  alone 

'Neath  sunset  skies  as  red  as  blood, 
The  summer  day  was  nearly  flown, 

The  flowing  tide  had  reached  its  flood, 
The  wheeling  birds  had  ceased  their  flight 

And  settled  on  the  rocks  to  rest. 
The  sun,  an  orb  of  crimson  light, 

Was  burning  in  the  distant  west. 


In    Conclusion 


77 


XCVII 

And  gone  was  all  the  phantom  throng, 

No  sign  of  warrior,  sage  or  creed, 
And  though  I  hunted  well  and  long, 

I  found  no  trace  of  bloody  deed. 
No  gnarl'ed  staff  nor  broken  bones. 

No  sod  bestained  with  wasted  blood. 
But  on  the  cliff  the  scattered  stones, 

And  in  the  sea  the  moaning  flood. 


XCVIII 


And  in  my  heart  there  was  a  peace, 

A  deep  content,  that  ne'er  beforf' 
Had  bid  my  aching  heart  to  ceas^ 

Its  useless  pain  for  evermore, 
A  deep  content  that  smiled  at  pain, 

That  laughed  to  scorn  all  childish  doubt. 
That  crushed  the  ravings  of  the  brain. 

And  put  all  woe  to  wildest  route. 


78  In    Conclusion 


XCIX 

A.nd  standing  thus  upon  the  cliff, 

I  saw  the  humble  haunts  of  men 
Hang  out  their  evening  lamps,  as  if 

They  sought  to  call  me  home  again. 
And  then  and  there  this  vow  I  made 

That  down  through  all  the  future  years 
No  fate  should  bid  me  be  afraid, 

No  sorrow  blind  me  with  its  tears. 


For  God  is  ever  at  the  wheel 

Which  swings  the  cosmos  on  its  race, 
Which  heads  the  universal  keel 

Across  the  time-swept  sea  of  space, 
His  eye  is  on  the  distant  goal, 

That  mystic  port  we  fain  would  see, 
The  final  haven  of  the  soul 

In  far  dim  realms  of  mystery. 


In    Conclusion 


79 


V    ENVOY 

Long  years  have  gone  as  years  will  go, 

Since  I  have  dreamed  upon  that  height, 
But  time  has  only  served  to  show 

That  wrong  is  but  the  seed  of  right; 
And  still  the  stars  swing  on  their  way, 

The  tides  go  streaming  out  to  sea. 
And  all  the  chords  of  nature  play 

One  ceaseless,  matchless  symphony. 


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